


Visionless

by FireFaceOutlook



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, headcanons, i guess, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-06
Updated: 2018-09-06
Packaged: 2019-07-07 22:06:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15917202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FireFaceOutlook/pseuds/FireFaceOutlook
Summary: Now, The Host very much preferred to be left alone in his independence.  His blindness didn't hinder anything in his day-to-day life, but bandaging his own eyes was a hassle he had yet to conquer.  But no one else in the Iplier household was smart or trustworthy enough for the task, so he would have to do it himself.  Closing the journal and putting away his writing supplies, he rose from his desk and left the library.





	Visionless

**Author's Note:**

> **A/N: Just some dumb little thing I wrote. Pretty creative title, huh? It only took me two minutes of title searching to give up and go with what was simplest, but I promise the story is (probably) worth it. Am I the only one who's shipped it?**   
>  **Anyway, I hope you enjoy!**

It was happening again. The Host paused, pen poised over the open journal, and sighed. He set his writing utensil aside, grabbing a tissue (after missing once or twice) and dabbing at the drops of blood on the page. He wiped away the trail of red tracking its way down his face from the bandages around his eyes – though it was an afterthought. He began writing again, but exactly thirty-seven seconds later, he felt blood leaking free again. It made his skin prickle uncomfortable and he was forced to concede to the fact that his bandages needed to be replaced. There was one glaring problem: Dr. Iplier, who was the only Ego Host trusted to help him, was overseas, assisting Dr. Schneeplestein with some issue involving Anti. That meant Host was on his own.

Now, The Host very much preferred to be left alone in his independence. His blindness didn't hinder anything in his day-to-day life, but bandaging his own eyes was a hassle he had yet to conquer. But no one else in the Iplier household was smart or trustworthy enough for the task, so he would have to do it himself. Closing the journal and putting away his writing supplies, he rose from his desk and left the library.

He was blessedly alone in the house (with the exception of Yandereplier, who was lamenting in her room over having to kill her most recent senpai), so he made it safely into the nearest bathroom. Mostly safely; he bumped his shoulder against the doorframe. Once he was situated more or less in front of the mirror – not that he'd be using it –, he began unraveling the soaked fabric. It was going smoothly until he reached the final layer; pasted to his empty eye sockets by crusted blood, the removal was excruciatingly slow and painful. It came off, finally, and he dropped it where he thought the garbage can would be. He groped around in the medicine cabinet behind the mirror until he found the roll of emergency gauze.

_“The Host, not at all nervously, unrolled a length of gauze,”_ he narrated under his breath, his hands following his words. _“He brought it to his ~~face~~ eyes and began wrapping the weeping wounds to the best of his ability.”_ Which admittedly, because of his lack of medical knowledge, wasn't very good at all. He got frustrated when, after two separate attempts, blood still seeped over the edges of his fingers, so he slapped on more bandages and called it quits.

He felt a little more relaxed upon returning to the library, but when he settled back at his desk, lifted his pen and opened his journal (blood still dripping steadily down his face), there was...nothing. It just wouldn't come. The words – the _events_ – were brimming in the back of his mind, but he couldn't draw them out. And it was all because of his fucking eyes. He swiped an arm across the desk in a brief fit of anger, then folded his arms on the wooden surface, burying his face in them.

  


He woke with a hazy mind and an absent mumble of, _“Wilford sucked in a sharp breath between his teeth as he spotted the blood steadily dripping from the desk.”_

“Oh, you're still alive?” the pink-mustached man asked, sounding mostly surprised with a hint of what might have been relief.

Host grumbled an affirmative as he pushed himself upright, ears ringing. He jumped when Wilford's hand landed on his shoulder, not having noticed him approach.

“Easy, ol' chap. Don't want to narrate me into a different dimension, again.” Wilford laughed as if he hadn't been trapped in that other dimension for a week despite his dimension-jumping abilities. “Not to be rude, but you look like trash.”

_“The Host has noticed.”_

“Have you?”

The Host remained silent, the blood under his fingers disappearing, likely due to Wilford bending reality, but his thoughts were overriding his mental overshadowing.

“Wilford,” Host said before the other Ego could begin some nonsensical conversation. _“The Host...requires your assistance.”_

The words tasted like ash, but surprisingly, Wilford didn't laugh or gloat. In fact, Host couldn't read any ill-will from him at all (besides the normal amount he carried at any given moment).

_“With The Host's bandages,”_ he clarified after a brief silence. (His mind was too muddied to predict Wilford's reaction – not that one could ever really predict what Wilford would do.)

He let out an undignified shriek when he was suddenly lifted from his seat, which was quickly drowned out by the deep laugh rumbling from Wilford's chest. His fingers scrambled for traction on Wilford's shirt, hooking onto his suspenders and grounding himself. He was carried (presumably*) down the hall and into the bathroom, then set on the counter. He wasn't pleased by his abrupt relocation and made it known by kicking out petulantly at Wilford, who danced out of range with another laugh. Then he was banging around in the cupboards under the sink, slamming bandages(?) on the counter.

The Host flinched when Wilford's warm, broad palms cupped his face. He caught a whiff of bubblegum and...and nostalgia*. The tension slowly seeped from his body and he couldn't even dredge up any anxiety when Wilford's fingers tugged his sloppy bandage-work free. There was a pause, and The Host's fingers curled around the edge of the counter almost (but most certainly not) nervously, but Wilford didn't say anything. A cold, damp cottonball touched the corner of The Host's eye and he sucked in a sharp breath, though not out of pain.

“... I'm going to continue cleaning your eye,” Wilford suddenly said as the cottonball returned, in lieu of an apology. His spontaneous narration continued as he cleaned The Host's eyes – he tried to be careful, but even when he pressed a little too hard, the blind Ego didn't budge. His mind was much more settled than when they began, too. 

When the cleaning part was finished (it took long enough that Host almost began to squirm), Wilford took the bandages and got to work. Surprisingly, he only took a few moments to secure the fabric in place, his movements swift and confident – as if he'd done it, or something similar, before. When Wilford finally pulled away, The Host pressed his own curious fingers to the careful work. It was almost as well done as Dr. Iplier's handiwork.

“Are you good?” Wilford asked, and though he didn't sound it, with his “sight' returning, The Host could see Wilford plucking nervously at a loose thread on his shirt.

“Yes,” The Host replied softly, “I am.”

The grin spreading across Wilford's face almost tempted Host to smile. Almost.

.

.

.

Though the bone-grinding hug and drawn-out kiss to the cheek that Wilford forced on The Host broke his stoic expression. Just a little.

**Author's Note:**

> **A/N: *Because Wilford can bend reality around him, and go through alternate dimensions.**   
>  ****This is a very important thing to note: Wilford can essentially lure people into a (sometimes false) sense of security. He feels familiar, and that makes people relax around and trust him. This is a passive ability (which means it's always active), but he can make it stronger/effect people more if he wanted it to.**   
>  **This next part is _a lot_ , so I understand if you decide not to read it, but it explains the situation of The Host in this story:**   
>  _My cousin and I were discussing how some of the Iplier Egos worked, and the main topic turned to The Host. Since he's not going to get any more exposition, we took a lot of liberties. We decided that in the Ego/Iplier Manor thing that the Egos dwell within, there's an ever expanding library full of the Host's work. He has to take the time to write what he “sees” to prevent it from building up in his mind and causing irreversible damage to his psyche. His “sight” becomes muddied when his bandages get overly saturated with his blood, to the point that they begin leaking. (It's a little hard to see, but his bandages were leaking blood down his face and appeared overall more soaked in blood in the chapter three preview of Danger In Fiction compared to in Markiplier TV, so before he joined the other Egos, he wasn't taking care of his eyes because it was too much of a hassle.) By 'muddied,' I mean that the details of everything around him are missing. The best example (which I wanted to add into the story, but couldn't find a good way to do so) is that when Wilford enters the library, The Host knew it was Wilford, but he couldn't tell, say, what he was wearing or anything detailed like that. And when The Host's sight becomes muddied, it spirals down from there until he is completely blind. Until his eyes get cleaned again, that is. It is usually Dr. Iplier's job, as you can see in the story, and the reason he can't do it properly himself is because as The Author, he wrote horror and mystery books (which I'm presuming because of the events of Danger In Fiction chpt. 1 & 2), so he never had much of a reason to do a lot of medical research for his stories. That's why he has no prior medical knowledge that would be useful for his situation. He also can't do research, because he can't read books or web pages. I think, if he were blind, but still had his eyes, then he could narrate his eyes to scan the pages of a book or the words on a website and gain the required knowledge that way, but he's not, so he can't._   
>  **I think that's it.**   
>  **As for the relationship of Wilford and The Host, I'll probably do a different story for that explanation, because it's pretty lengthy, just like the spiel above.**


End file.
